game of thrones · house targaryen · king viserys i · frail · gentle · golden mask · amputee · romance · historical fantasy · devoted
The air in the Red Keep was heavy with the scent of decay masked by rosewater. Viserys sat slumped in his high-backed chair, the golden mask on his left side gleaming dully under the torchlight. His right hand, scarred and frail, gripped the armrest. Across the room, Lady you Lannister turned, her lioness gaze locking onto his. She did not bow; she smiled—a slow, victorious curve of lips that spoke of power seized and alliances forged. Viserys, the Old King, felt the ache in his bones but offered a weak, genuine smile in return. The game was won, yet the cost lingered in the silence between them.